


The Bernese Affair

by lullabyofsilence



Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Takarazuka Revue, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Canon Compliant, Childhood Trauma, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, and what I want is what I was promised in that first music video DAMMIT!!, it's compliant with canon but takes place after the show ends so I can do what I want!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-12 03:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16865515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lullabyofsilence/pseuds/lullabyofsilence
Summary: An unexpected reunion in the Swiss city of Berne between two lost souls who feel they have lost everything.





	1. The Frozen Water

**Author's Note:**

> The Du Puget family in this fic is inspired by that of the historical Lieutenant de Roi of the Bastille, Pierre-François de Rivière du Puget.  
> Olympe's full name in this fic is Olympe Charlotte de Rivière du Puget.

   It wasn't the house she didn't like as her father had questioned. In fact, the townhouse was rather quaint, Olympe had even found herself growing a little fond of its simplicity with its white walls and chocolate contours. They had been lucky to find such a house at all, and so quickly having spent days and weeks in transit, out of Paris and into anonymity.  
    They arrived three years ago, the journey had been long and arduous and Olympe's spirit was weak. For days she couldn't say her name to anyone, say nothing that would imply her former allegiances, she had learned to be silent, the mute little daughter of an unknown traveller. She heard that anyone could accuse anyone of being a traitor to the revolution, each person she saw on the streets in the French towns could have been watching her as the confused and exhausted prey that she had become. The more often she saw someone, the more threatening they became, just peeking into the corner of her eye, but never meeting her gaze when she turned to look. Did they know her?... She would lock herself in her cupboard sized rooms at the inns, lest the phantoms spy her.  
   It had become commonplace being spirited out of bed at midnight as suspicions bubbled over and fights broke out in the streets as more and more towns seemed to turn upside down, the folly growing out of Paris and ravenously consuming the land further and further away. She would be into a carriage in her bed clothes and there was always something left behind; a shoe, a necklace, a hat, but she couldn't go back, she was not wanted here.  
   Their arrival in Switzerland came in the form as a silent and tense crawl across the border in the middle of the night, their carriage moving as silently as possible but, in turn, they moved ungodly slowly. Olympe huddled out of sight beside the side of the window, tightly holding her twelve-year-old sister close and brush her fingers through her hair in some hope of calming her. Françoise would couldn't help but whimper endlessly; every crackle and growl of the trees in the wind, every shadow could have been a pursuer. Her father sat back firmly in his seat, also trying to avoid direction from outside, clutching Françoise's hand.  
   It felt like hours before the forest began to thin out and the lights of a town blazed in the distance. Olympe gazed upon them like she had never seen light so beautiful and welcoming. Exhausted and afraid, tattered and weak, they knew they would have to throw themselves on someone's mercy, praying they were in the right place and that their benefactors was indeed a friend to them.  
   Their arrival in Berne was quiet and dark, for a few more nights they slept in their lonely carriage, before the Lieutenant's appointment at the city hall and the three continued to sleep uncomfortably until a house could be found. It was her father's prowess at the Bastille that earned him a position rather quickly as warden at a city prison, it should have felt much like before. He was happy at least, that was something Olympe could be glad for, her sister was safe and smiling, her father was content, had good work, took pride in his new home. She liked to see them happy again.  
  Olympe herself was still not quite at rest. There were too many unfamiliar faces here, no friends; the multiple pairs of blank eyes, like masquerade masks, they were meaningless silhouettes to her, she was completely alone, in a city, in a country that didn't ask for her. She never thought less of the Swiss, but France was all she wanted, all she loved, she hadn't even any time to say goodbye. It did not take long for her to avoid walking the streets during the day if she could help it, only in the evening to encounter as little people as possible so she could at least pretend, pretend she was somewhere else, pretend she was home.  
   Tonight was no different to her regular promenades through the streets. Her house was not far from the river, giving her access to perhaps the most beautiful reflection of the night sky this side of Lake Geneva. Here, the Aare was dotted by pin points of auric globes through the mosaic of the reflections of the bare tree branches waving in the shimmering pool. She would sit by the bank for a little while, attracting little attention, sat on a bench, her ankles crossed under her black dress. Just a quiet little maiden, unassuming, uninteresting.  
   There wasn't much more to see on the river tonight, often times she would see the night birds gliding smoothly across the ripples, the singing oarsmen singing Italian love songs. It was outmoded and kitsch, of course but Olympe never tired of such clichés, influenced the love-sick fool she had once been. Tonight however, the river was empty of most life, it was much too cold for the birds to swim in January.  
  The air was frozen and pricked the back of her throat with each breath, she could feel the icy air orbit throughout her head. The cold made the skin of her fingers feel tight, the tiny little bones feeling more prominent, her hands felt gnarled and old. The Winter was not kind, Time was even crueller.  
   She stared longingly into the water, the final leaves to fall from the trees still trapped in the river's clutches, circling each other hypnotically downstream. She stared into the reflections as if searching for something, for someone, a hint of her childhood, anything. In the whirlpools of leaves and stars, she thought she could make out familiar faces, lost loves, ghosts.  
   A chill ran down her spine; she should go home, there was still nothing here for her tonight. Solemnly, she patted her hand on the bench for a moment before standing, the hem of her gown lapping softly at her ankles. She took one last look at the river as if to look for an excuse to smile before turning her back to the terraces of white brick houses and pointed spires, her curls bouncing on her shoulders with the cool evening breeze.  
   The streets were often empty, save for the snoozing hermits or the working women who offered the lost Olympe a sympathetic smile which she would sometimes return, knowing those girls had little choice but wait forever on the freezing streets.  
   As she approached the corner, expecting another empty street. She saw an approaching shadow, a figure lumbering her way, it looks confused and yet determined but lacking direction. They zig-zagged down the way, Olympe darted to the side of the road but somehow, she suddenly was struck in the shoulder, the stranger had tumbled towards her. It felt like their bones were built like stone. She stumbled to the wall and clutched onto a protruding brick of the closest building, avoiding any confrontation at all costs, ready to apologise for any misdemeanour especially if it was from some drunk who would take to babbling incoherently at her. She looked away, waiting for their boot steps to disappear so she could skulk away.  
   "M-Miss Olympe?"  
   She froze.  
   "Miss Olympe du Puget?"  
   She barely anyone knew anyone here, in the last three years only the neighbours and some of the shop keeps knew her by full name. They had a cordial voice, certainly not intoxicated but orderly and set upon deep tones that flowed smoothly like sweet chocolate, and the accent was surely French. She knew this voice, one she'd not heard in a long time. Sheepishly she turned her head to regard the figure who had approached, concerned for her wellbeing. She gasped, picking up the male's features, she stepped away from his touch.  
   "Seigneur de Peyrol..." she whispered coldly. Indeed, the man on course for the river was Lazare de Peyrol, high ranking officer in the Royal Guard of France, or perhaps he was no longer since he too was here. "W-what are you doing here?"  
   The Comte chuckled solemnly, his hands held firmly behind his back, at attention still. "I'm afraid that... that I too have fled France..." he recounted. "You know the Royal Family were arrested-?"  
   "Yes..." Olympe breathed. Olympe could remember the day she received a letter from Madame de Polignac, who had in turn received a letter from the Marquise de Tourzel, the Duchess' successor. The Queen and her family had been arrested as they tried to flee, on trial for treason, the possibility of death was almost a certainty. Olympe had fainted right away upon reading the tearstained letter; the woman whose hands she held in their mutual fear of attack, her mistress, her employer who held her close the night Olympe fled, the one she willingly would give her life for. Her Majesty was but a prisoner.  
   Olympe rubbed her forehead, her eyes swelling briefly. The King was already found guilty, their worst mutual fears were being recognised. Olympe blinked rapidly to expel the sorrow from her eyes and brought her face to a neutral expression. "What-what brings you to the riverside?"  
   "Hm?" Lazare had been momentarily staring towards the icy water in a trance like state, his eyes were low and sad, like he had been interrupted in a personal task. "N- nothing, I just came to look..."  
   She wasn't convinced of his honesty by the shaking in his voice but could fathom no other reason to take its place, he sounded like he'd been drinking but she smelt no liqueur on his breath, his voice sounded exactly like she remembered but his demeanour was all together more defeated.  
   "It is much prettier in Spring." she sighed wistfully.  
   "Oh... I shall be sure to frequent it when Spring comes..."  
   Olympe gulped again, unsure of what to say. She knew the man in front of her more from word of mouth than proper contact with him. This man had done heinous things, she knew very well how he allowed soldiers to fire on the people of Paris during the protests, he'd killed from his own gun. But this man had watched too, he had seen things. The man who had seen the roses of war, the obliteration of men on all fronts. He was always confident and cold, stoic and particularly unsympathetic. The two of them were never more than acquaintances for all these reasons, she knew very little about him, she even feared him in a way. Of course, her father very much liked him, and the two men being colleagues Olympe often found herself in Lazare's vicinity more often than she was comfortable with and she dared not speak to him. Now she stood awkwardly in his presence once again in some sort of horrible projection of a memory but now they seemed on a level plain, she never saw herself as anyone, but now he could no longer be the King's triumphant hero. If there was one thing they had in common, it was only their love for the Royal Family, nothing more.  
   "Where were you heading, Miss du Puget?"  
   "Home."  
   "Are you alone here?"  
   "I have my family."  
   "So your father is here?"  
   "Of course."  
   Lazare nodded and paused. Much like Olympe, it was obvious that he too felt alone in this city and it was also obvious there was something pressing on his mind knowing Lieutenant du Puget was nearby. Olympe didn't want to say it, but her father must have been lonely too.  
   "Would you..." she released a laboured sigh. "Would you like to escort me home? I'm sure my father would very much like to see you again. You were good friends if I remember correctly?"  
   She saw the light in Lazare's eyes flicker in a moment of hope, as if he had expected her to leave it without another word.  
   "That would please me greatly." he managed a smile.


	2. Her Father's Only Friend

   The walk home was mercifully short much to Olympe's relief. Olympe spent it with her arms wrapped around her torso, her fingers messing the tie of her fichu or adjusting her mauve ribbon. The Comte was luckily quiet, it wasn't too different to how she remembered him, not speaking until spoken to, at least when it came to people of their pedigree. Perhaps he knew she had no interest in talking to him. His odd attempts at polite conversation were met with silence. Olympe didn't know how to talk to him, she would only interject every so often to give directions to the house. Their footsteps echoed in the quiet streets, the blue of the night only broken by the flickers of the street lamps.  
   The little unassuming house approached the warm glow of a distant fireplace bled out of the snow-dusted window panes. In the window by the door was a little face of a woman, some tight curls peeking out of a soft linen cap. As the pair approached the door, the little face ducked from the window and the door almost immediately the slight clunk of the front door greeted Olympe and Lazare. As the door opened Olympe was met by the warm air of a roaring fire washing her frozen skin.  
   "Evening, ma'am." a small voice from a small woman greeted them. Olympe pulled the ribbon of her caplet and allowed the maid to pull it from her shoulders.  
   "Thank you, Brigitte." Olympe smiled.  
   "How was your walk, ma'am?"  
   "Fine, thank you."  
   The rosy cheeked maid, wrapping the caplet in her arms turned to close the door but stopped suddenly. "Oh... Can I help you, sir?"  
   "Oh..." Olympe hummed, turning back to see that Lazare was still stood outside, daring not to enter until given her consent. "He's a guest." she sighed heavily. "Do come in, Seigneur de Peyrol."  
   Lazare appeared hesitant for a moment as he didn't believe himself deserving of entering. He took small tentative steps towards the house, but once he felt a breath of the warmth from the nearby fire he found himself following what seemed like an incessant craving.  
   He looked around the entrance hall, forward was the staircase, to the right through a door was a dinner table, with three place settings, beyond it was a second door, presumably to the kitchen. To the left was a sitting room, an old but still comfy looking couch ran parallel to a large fireplace from whence soft crackles burst the silence. Before it was the silhouette of Lieutenant du Puget, vaguely hunched and watching the fire intently perhaps in the first thralls of sleep. The corona of light around him shone as he turned around once he heard the tiny metallic snap of the door shutting.  
   "Oh, Olympe, dearest! You're back so soon!" he beamed, a great relief tumbling from his voice as he stood to meet his daughter as she took a few steps into the lounge. Olympe pressed her tired head to his shoulder as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, brushing her brunette curls with his fingers. "How was tonight's excursion? Was there much to see? Did you sit by the river? It really is such a beautiful night, but it looks so cold out - I hoped you kept warm!"  
   "It was fine..." Olympe muttered.  
    The Lieutenant froze, caught unawares by her simple and somewhat unsatisfactory answer but he dared not pester her. "' _Fine'._.." he echoed.  
   "Your coat, sir?" Brigitte's voice emanated from the hall. The Lieutenant peered over Olympe's shoulder to view the guest who had followed her inside.  
   "What good fortune smiles upon me...?" he breathed. "Or has my daughter been followed home by some friendly spectre?"  
   Olympe looked up, her father's eyes had turned a light red, his eyes squinting with tears, his lips pulling into both a quiver and a smile. Olympe turned around and looked at Lazare; his hands were shaking. She had always known these two men to be calm, stoic, and orderly, but now what spirt maintained such composure had evaporated from their souls.  
   "Oh, My Lord... My good son...!" the Lieutenant wept. "What benevolent force exists to have you standing in my house...?"  
   Olympe slowly and somewhat reluctantly released her father from her embrace to tightly grasp the Comte's chilled hand.  
   "Lieutenant du Puget. It's so good to see you..." Lazare chocked behind an insuppressible smile.  
   The two men embraced, the Lieutenant sniffed, clearly holding back tears, Olympe hadn't seen him like this in years.  
   "It was by some miracle that your daughter and I crossed paths in the streets and she so generously offered me the chance to see you again!" Lazare explained, the corners of his lips tugging at his shaking voice.  
   "Oh Olympe...!" the Lieutenant turned back to his daughter, releasing the Comte's hand so that he may hold hers. "Thank you, my sweet, for bringing me this joy! Thank you! Thank you!"  
   Olympe didn't answer, perhaps too overwhelmed by her father's reaction. She knew he and Lazare were close but didn't imagine her father would react to a colleague like he would to long lost family. She hadn't seen him this way, here was a youth to his joyful tears, and the timbre of his voice was raised to a delightful song far beyond anything Olympe could remember in the last three years. He was so happy... So, why did it gall her so?  
   "My friend, you must stay for a spell, for a drink and a chat. I must hear how you have come to be here!" the Lieutenant began to usher Lazare into the lounge.  
   "Oh no, Good Sir, I have intruded long enough for tonight as it is, I only wished to see that you were in good health-!"  
   "No, no, My Lord, you _must_ stay! Just for one drink, just one! We need not chattered about any intimate details, let us have a drink like we always used to do!"  
   Olympe guessed that Lazare probably could not find it in his cold heart to say no to the Lieutenant, an ageing man who had seen it all yet still had merriment in his heart. As he gave in to the unnegotiable invitation, Olympe skulked through the doorway to the hall. She leaned against the wall tiredly. She heard the kitchen door swing open with a squeal and the heavy booted march of Mr Falk. The large, broad shouldered valet appeared into the hallway, clearly expressing some irritation that his normally quiet evening before helping her father to bed was being interrupted by a call for wine. As he spotted Olympe however he pasted a friendly smile onto his face and bowed his head, in return she gave him a sympathetic nod; she wasn't expecting this either.  
   She stood by for a few moments, the two men in the next room were already sharing hearty laughter over God knows what. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling very insecure and restless.  
   "Olympe?" a small voice murmured from above. Olympe's head sharply titled to see the fourteen-year-old Françoise just a few steps down from the top of the stairs, looking over the bannister at her. Dressed for bed in her linen smock but wearing a dressing gown haphazardly on her shoulders, it was much too big for her, it was handed down by her older sister after all of her own were lost in the journey to Berne. "What's all the noise?"  
   "It's nothing, Françoise. Just go back to our room." Olympe muttered.  
    Françoise was just about to follow her sister's advice, but the Lieutenant stuck his head from behind the lounge door. "Oh girls-! Françoise, dearest, I'm so sorry did we wake you?"  
   "No, father. I was just readying for bed."  
   "Ah, I see." he nodded, beckoning Françoise down the stairs for a moment and kissed her on the forehead. "Goodnight, my darling. Sleep well. We will try to keep the noise down for you."  
   "We-?" Françoise frowned.  
   "Just go upstairs, Françoise..." Olympe hissed. The order appeared to go unnoticed by the Lieutenant, but Françoise obeyed her sister and ran back upstairs.  
   "Olympe, why don't you join us?" the Lieutenant asked cheerily.  
   "No thank you, father. If it would be acceptable, I would like to retire to bed." Olympe sighed, not meeting her father's eyes.  
   "Oh..." the old man exhaled, quite obviously crestfallen and yet unsurprised. "Well then goodnight, my lovely Olympe." He held out his arms and Olympe at least took his offer for a warm hug, she rarely turned that down. As she turned upstairs, Brigitte's head popped around from the dining room.  
   "Miss Olympe, I'll be up with you in just a moment to help you dress for bed!" she called.  
   "Thank you, Brigitte." Olympe half smiled. "And father... do offer my apologies to the Comte..." 

* * *

   The house was quaint but confined, upstairs there were two bedrooms, one for their father, and the one the girls shared. There was another smaller sitting room down the hall, but it was currently used mainly for storage. Their father offered to turn it into another bedroom, so the sisters could have their own beds but Olympe didn't wish to make her father spend money they didn't yet have in making the room appropriate for sleeping. Sleeping in the same room was at times uncomfortable, but the two sisters kept to their own side; François' on the street facing side, Olympe's on the garden facing side.  
   Françoise sat on her side of the bed with a book rested in her lap and opened to a specific page, but she was too curious to read it. She peered to the other side of the bed, beyond which Brigitte was helping Olympe undress after having her hair let down. Françoise bit her lip; her sister had been irritable for a long time and bringing up a subject she didn't like was often met with a prickly response. Her knees bobbed under her book as she tried and failed to put her inquisitive thoughts aside. She tapped her fingers on the pages, wondering when the best time - if any - would be to question her older sister. Olympe had become so private since they came here, she spoke very little of their final year in Paris. She used to visit home gushing about her days at Versailles, how warm Madame Royale's hugs were or how the Queen had once brushed her hand - perhaps even on purpose! Her life was once an open book but now Olympe kept her days to herself, she moved around the house as silently as possible, spoke as little as possible, and did not abide conversation about the final year in Paris and their flight to Berne.  
   Françoise of course knew that her sister was saddened, they were all saddened, who wouldn't be? Françoise had been through it all too, seen the same dangers, fled the same rabid beasts on their heels, slept those cramped nights on an uncomfortable carriage seat. They should have been able to relate to each other more than they had ever been, so why did Olympe close off her life completely?  
   Françoise huffed in frustration, unheard by her sister or the maid. Her shoulders dropped, and she closed her eyes; either she asked and got a short sour response, or she stayed quiet and lived with the prying thoughts until she could ask her father in the morning.  
   "Olympe, who was with father downstairs?" she finally asked in her most innocent voice. Olympe who was now had her nightgown pulled over her head, she hardly reacted in her movements.  
   "Nobody." she muttered.  
   "Well, they must be quiet some nobody to make father laugh so loudly!" Françoise pushed further.  
   "He's just one of father's friends from Paris who's in town, what of it?" Olympe tutted.  
   "Olympe, what's wrong, please tell me!" Françoise put down her book and crawled a little to the other side of the bed. "If there wasn't an issue then you would have no trouble telling me about one of father's friends!"  
   Olympe didn't say anything, once she was satisfied that she was prepared for bed, she gestured for Brigitte to leave the room.  
   "Olympe, tell me!" Françoise begged. "Why don't you tell me anything!?"  
   "For God's sake, Françoise, why don't you mind your own business!?" Olympe snapped. She had turned to face Françoise so that her sister could now see her sister's eyes were welling up with tears.  
   "Oh..." Françoise cowered and returned to her side of the bed, blowing out the candle on her table and ducking under her covers.  
   Olympe's hands shook, she never spoke to Françoise like that... _ever_. She rubbed her forehead, she felt like her head may burst. "Françoise?" she approached the bed, but Françoise was silent. "Françoise, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, Françoise, I didn't mean to!" she spluttered.  
   Françoise returned no sound. With a sigh, feeling that it was fruitless, Olympe blew out the rest of the candles and slipped under the covers beside her sister. They lay facing away from each other, Olympe wiping her eyes and sniffing, Françoise remained still. Olympe still felt her hands shaking, she tried to hold tightly onto the bed covers but she could not compose herself. Her head felt hot and she couldn't understand why she had lashed out so cruelly to her sister.  
   She sighed heavily. "Françoise? Do you remember the Comte de Peyrol?" she asked timidly.  
   "Hm?" Françoise finally stirred and sat up. "A little... Is that who's with father?"  
   "Yes."  
   "So why were you so upset?"  
   "I don't know... I don't know... I- I'm so sorry that I yelled at you, Françoise... I wonder if I may be coming down with something..."  
   Françoise nodded, her first curiosity satiated but now another arose consumed by why this particular houseguest could have riled Olympe up so... maybe she  _was_  ill. "Would you like me to find Brigitte or Mr Falk, so they can fetch you something if you are unwell?"  
   "No, no, don't worry." Olympe yawned. "I'm sure it's nothing sinister. I'll be fine soon enough. Goodnight."


End file.
